


a love to last past saturday night

by wildewoman_22



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewoman_22/pseuds/wildewoman_22
Summary: “I’m Michael Ginsberg. New writer.” Her hand is warm and firm when he shakes it. She smiles at him as though she is trying very hard not to, the twitch in the corners of her wide mouth giving her away.“Dawn Chambers,” she replies brightly.  An AU in which Dawn and Ginsberg get a happy ending.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the midst of a Mad Men rewatch and being sad all over again about how Dawn and Ginsberg's stories ended up, so this is my long-winded attempt at making it right. 
> 
> Title from 'A Sunday Kind of Love' by Etta James.

i.

Michael lets Don’s office door click behind him, shifting his portfolio to his other arm. Restless, he walks over to the huge windows where a white-haired guy with a bored expression is holding a drink. Michael looks out into the bustling traffic of Madison Avenue, eagerly climbing up on the navy couch. Everyone on the sidewalk is rushing to wherever they’re going – they look like busy ants.

 

“How fast d’you think something would fall from this height?” Michael says. The white-haired guy laughs.

 

“Find me something heavy and we’ll find out.” He sips from the glass in his hand. “You the new guy?”

 

Michael shrugs nervously. He’s got no idea if he’d screwed up this interview as bad as the first one with Peggy. “Eh. Soon to be determined.”

 

He fidgets, looking from side to side, and catches eyes with Don’s secretary over at her desk. She’d pretty much ignored him earlier, but now she’s looking up from her typewriter at him, pressing her lips together in a straight line. These cute little round silver glasses are perched on her nose, and they glint a bit in the light when she moves. He feels the tips of his ears get hot when he realizes he’s staring. She flicks her gaze back down to the keys just as Peggy comes through the door and leads him away.

 

The secretary doesn’t look up again as Michael goes past her desk, but he hears the clacking of her keys slow down, just a little.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, he figures he ought to properly introduce himself. She’s Don Draper’s gatekeeper, after all.

 

“I’m Michael Ginsberg. New writer.”

 

Her hand is warm and firm when he shakes it. She smiles at him as though she is trying very hard not to, the twitch in the corners of her wide mouth giving her away.

 

“Dawn Chambers,” she replies brightly.

 

* * *

 

Dawn stifles a yawn with the back of her hand as she steps into the break room, pouring the last dregs of the coffee pot into her cup. She spots the empty can of grounds on the counter and tosses it into the garbage can, making a mental note to pick up a new one on her lunch break. As she stirs sugar into her mug, Michael Ginsberg storms into the room with a face like a thundercloud. Dawn watches him frantically rummage through the cupboards, seemingly growing more frustrated by the second. Suddenly, he turns to her.

 

“There any coffee at all in this place?” he blurts harshly. It takes Dawn a second to gather herself. They’d barely said two words to each other in the weeks since Ginsberg had been hired, but she has certainly seen him – and _heard_ him, lord – around the office. He’s so damn jumpy and exaggerated all the time, baring his thoughts and feelings out in the open. She doesn’t know what to think of him just yet.

 

“I’m sorry, I just took the last of it. I didn’t know.” She gestures half-heartedly to the empty coffee can. Michael lets out an annoyed huff, and then sighs. His shoulders sag as he scrubs his hand over his chin. There’s something sad and open about his face.

 

“Jesus, I’m sorry. Ignore me. It’s just – they’re all –“ he pauses, staring at the floor, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is softer than she’s ever heard it.

 

“Did they make you look at the pictures? Everyone’s in there, drooling over those poor girls, those nurses, all messed up like that. I can’t even think about it. It’s sick.”

 

Dawn remembers the clench in her stomach as she’d read the headline that morning, disgust settling deep like a rock.

 

“I couldn’t look at them either.” Dawn says quietly, hands curling around her mug. Michael’s head snaps up at that, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. He works his jaw as if preparing to say something, turning it over in his mind – but instead he says nothing, openly studying her. She isn’t sure if he knows he’s doing it or not.

 

 _His eyes are very green_ , Dawn thinks suddenly, a tiny bloom of something unfurling in her ribcage.

 

* * *

 

When he walks into his shared office the following morning, a steaming mug of black coffee is waiting for him beside his messy pile of folders. Stan and Peggy burst in, squabbling over the work for Topaz for the fifth time that week. Michael ignores them, letting the warmth of the cup leach into his palms. He bites the inside of his cheek.

 

Later, he sits alone in the creative lounge, tapping a pencil against his temple and staring down at a long list of crossed out taglines. A bronze figure in purple clacks her way down the hall, and Michael starts at the sight of her.

 

“Dawn! Oh – ah – Miss… Chambers,” he coughs out awkwardly, as Dawn comes to a stop in the doorway. Her arms are filled with papers. She quirks an eyebrow at him.

 

“Yes, Mr. Ginsberg?” Her tone is amused.

 

“I just wanted to thank you for the coffee this morning. Very generous. Y’know, thoughtful, and all that.” Michael winces internally. _Shit._ What the hell was that? Dawn tilts her head.

 

“Well, see, if you’re the first one to make some in the morning, you’re less likely to be the guy left with an empty can,” Dawn says with a mocking twist to her mouth. Her eyes shine playfully. _Jesus, was she teasing him?_ Michael nearly chokes. Before he can even start to think of a snappy answer, she’s gone again.

 

Michael starts making a habit of coming in to work a few minutes earlier after that, settling into a routine: he hovers around the coffee machine, waiting until he hears Dawn’s cheerful greetings to the other secretaries as she comes in to brew a fresh pot. Next, he grabs two mugs from the cabinet and sets them side by side.

 

 

 

ii.

“Turn a lamp on, baby. You’ll ruin your eyes.”

 

Dawn glances up from the notepad and papers balanced on her lap to see her mother giving her a reproachful look from the hallway, bathed in the blue light of the television. Her mother sighs, flicking on the light switch. “You still in here working on that? Come on, now. Work is work and home is home.” Dawn fights the urge to roll her eyes.

 

“Mr. Draper asked me to work on some last-minute correspondence. It’s fine - it’s my job, Mama.”

 

Dawn’s mother laughs darkly, coming to sit beside her daughter on the couch. “Mhm, sure. You spend too much time in that office. Coming home past eight o’clock – it’s always the work with you.”

 

“ _Mama.”_

 

“When was the last time you went on a date with a man?” she challenges.

 

“Oh, please.”

 

Hastily, Dawn places her papers on the coffee table and scoffs, moving to stand up. Her mother leans forward, brushing her thumb against Dawn’s cheek. The room is still and quiet for a moment, the television a low hum in the background.

 

“I just worry about you, kitten. You’re always so serious.”

 

It’s 2:15 in the morning and Dawn stares up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. She thinks, suddenly, about how Michael had blurted out a dirty joke to her in the break room that morning, his eyes going round with horror when his brain caught up to his mouth. She’d been shocked for a moment, but then she’d laughed. It occurs to her then that that was the first time she’d laughed for real within that building. _You’re always so serious._

 

Dawn screws her eyes shut, rolling onto her side. Michael is hardly ever serious. He can be sarcastic, loud, sensitive, and twitchy; he says whatever damn thing pops into his head; she’s wondered more than once why he does or says half the things he does. She’s convinced he buys clothes that are too big on purpose, looking more handsome than he has any right to in his rumpled shirts. He listens to her talk about the movies she sees with Nikki. He makes talking about the weather interesting.

 

_When was the last time you went on a date with a man?_

Screw it.

The next day, she asks him to lunch.

 

* * *

 

 

Stan is the first one to figure it out. He’s waiting for the elevator in the lobby after lunch when he sees Dawn and Michael enter the building together - awkwardly walking a respectable distance apart - and the way Ginsberg fidgets the entire way up to the 37th floor is confirmation enough. Stan closes the door the minute the two of them are alone in their office.

 

“Are you _shitting_ me? Is our very own Miss Chambers gonna make my boy a man?” Stan teases, taking genuine delight in Michael’s discomfort.

 

“Oh, shut up for once. We’re adults, we’re friends, we go to lunch. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael retorts, just as Peggy comes in. _Great._

 

“What are we fighting about?” she asks.

 

“Ginzo here’s been a-courting.” Stan answers immediately, clapping his hands together gleefully. Michael gives him a defeated shove, covering his face.

 

“I said shut up! Jesus.”

 

“Oh my God, really? With _who?”_ Peggy says, looking like she just won the lottery. She crosses her arms, clearly intrigued and not ready to drop the subject anytime soon. Ginsberg sighs.

 

“Dawn and I are… friends. We eat lunch sometimes, that’s all. And we – we talk. Please shut up about it. She’s a very… professional girl, you know,” he says, toying with a loose thread on his shirt. Stan and Peggy exchange a look.

 

“At least take her on a real date, Ginzo.” Stan says, shaking his head.

 

 

iii.

“Wow, you smell great. Look at you,” Michael says as Dawn settles across from him, smoothing out her dress – pale blue, with a satin neckline and short sleeves. She smiles a bit indulgently, the gentle slope of her collarbones lit up by the candlelight.

 

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” He’d left that ratty plaid blazer at home for once and is wearing a shirt that actually seems to fit, his curls falling neatly on his forehead. Dawn looks around the restaurant. It’s their second official date, and this place is fancier than she’d expected. She has a sneaking suspicion Peggy helped him choose it, which makes her smile.

 

“So, what happened with Sno-Ball?” she asks eagerly. Michael scowls.

 

“They didn’t even hear my idea. Don left the sketches in the cab, apparently. They bought it anyway, even though mine was better - I know it was. He’s a coward. He’s a fucking asshole,” he spits, struggling to keep his voice down.

 

“Hey, _hey._ Shh.” Dawn’s eyes are full of sympathy. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs in the tone he likes best, soft and soothing. Michael relaxes a little.

 

“How do you stand it? Working yourself to death for him while he gets drunk and sleeps in his office all day. They all do. And they never get called on anything they pull. You’re better than that - we’re all better than that. It’s not fair.”

 

Dawn is quiet for a moment, fascinated by the open honesty in his face and how easily he voices everything she’d never say aloud. It makes her a little dizzy.

 

“I guess I try not to think about it, otherwise I’ll go crazy. I could try to get a job somewhere else, but the money’s good there. I just do my work the best I can and try to tune it all out, you know? I have to. My mother wants me to quit only because she hates that I get home so late.” Dawn shakes her head and laughs, the sound colored with something bittersweet.

 

“Daddy probably would’ve tried to get a job there – he always had something to say about damn near every commercial on TV.” Dawn looks down at the table, suddenly subdued.

 

Michael looks at her curiously. “Dawn?”

 

“He died six years ago. He worked construction – there was an accident,” she explains gently. Michael tentatively drops his hand onto the table, palm up as an invitation. She twines her fingers with his, looking down at their joined hands. He squeezes a little, encouraging. Dawn smiles up at him.

 

“I told Mama about you, you know. That we were… seeing each other. I said you were a very interesting person.” Dawn teases.

 

“I don’t know if ‘interesting’ is the word I’d use,” Michael replies. “I think if I told Pop about you, he’d go out and get a marriage license that very day. That man, I swear to God.”

 

After dinner, Dawn slips a tiny mirror out of her pocketbook and carefully reapplies her pink lipstick. She rubs her lips together, making these little popping noises that just drive him crazy. Dawn grins and meets his gaze, a wicked sparkle in her brown eyes.

 

“Let’s go. I know a place.”

 

* * *

 

 

They end up at a tiny hole in the wall in Harlem, swaying to the muffled music from an antique-looking jukebox. It’s smoky and crowded, clusters of people milling around the lone shabby pool table. Michael can’t seem to relax, nervously looking anywhere but at her, his hands stiffly placed at Dawn’s sides. She moves closer, looping her arms around his neck.

 

“Michael, look at me,” she says, her fingers brushing against the curls at the nape of his neck. He swallows as he meets her eyes, licking his lips. She smells like vanilla, and she’s soft and warm under his hands, standing so close to him, she’s never been _this_ close and it’s too much –

 

“Dawn, I – I don’t, I never, I mean…. I’ve never – this is all new to me, okay?” he sputters, breathless and embarrassed. Dawn feels a burst of affection course through her at his mortified expression, his eyes wide with barely concealed terror.

 

“That’s okay. It’s okay. Just relax.” Dawn pulls him closer, resting her head on his shoulder. She hums along with the music, softly singing a line here and there. _I’m hoping to discover a certain kind of lover, who will show me the way..._

Slowly, the tension bleeds from his body and he fully wraps his arms around her, pressing her tight to him, filled with a yearning he’s never felt before. Michael feels her smile, her breath tickling his neck.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers in her ear, and he thinks later that he should have known that her kisses would be like everything else about her – confident and gentle and warm.

 

 

 

iv.

In November, he invites her to dinner at his place – it’s his birthday, and he normally doesn’t care too much but Morris likes to make a fuss. Dawn checks her reflection three times before leaving the apartment, refusing to succumb to the nerves. She grabs the bakery box (banana cream pie, his favourite) and goes to catch the subway.

 

Michael grins when he answers the door. She gives him a quick kiss and hands him the pie.

 

“Happy Birthday,” she says, squeezing his free hand. He brings her inside, where Morris is busy setting the table. He turns when Michael clears his throat.

 

“Pop, this is Dawn. Dawn, Morris.” Morris takes her hand in both of his. His palms are rough and callused.

 

“So, I finally get to meet your girl, huh? All he talks is Dawn this, Dawn that. Welcome – you look very nice. Too good for him, eh?” he says in his thick accent, winking at her, and Dawn decides that she likes him right away. Michael looks like he wants the floor to swallow him up, but he’s watching her with gentle eyes.

 

They settle into dinner, and Dawn can tell that Michael is a little restless. He fidgets, clearly nervous. Morris is telling a story about Michael’s first time seeing a movie as a child.

 

“He doesn’t understand – he thinks they are huge, giant people! I had to take him away before it ended. You had bad dreams about it for months,” Morris says, and Dawn laughs fondly at the mental image of a tiny Michael covering his eyes in the theatre. Michael rolls his eyes, blushing, but he’s smiling a little, too.

 

Morris proposes a toast during their dessert.

 

“To my boy on his birthday, I wish all happiness. Your year will be rich, and even richer with a smart, pretty girl like this to share it with.”

 

They raise their glasses, and Dawn meets Michael’s gaze over the rim. His eyes are serious, flickering with something deep and unreadable. Her heart pounds in her ears.

 

* * *

 

 

He walks her to the subway station, and the streets are somewhat empty even though the evening is unseasonably warm. They decide to sit for a minute on a stray bench.

 

Michael is uncharacteristically quiet, staring straight ahead. “I think your father is my new favourite person. He’s my new favourite Ginsberg, anyway,” she nudges his shoulder, trying to get him to smile. He doesn’t. He turns to her, searching her face, apparently waging some internal debate.

 

“It’s not my birthday. Not really, anyway. I don’t know when my real birthday is,” he pauses, taking a deep breath. “Morris isn’t my real father,” he says, staring at the ground. Dawn doesn’t say a word, but reaches over to take his hand in hers. He closes his eyes.

“He adopted me from an orphanage in Sweden when I was five. My parents, my real parents, they… they’d been over there, in the, ah – the camps. I was born there, they said. So I don’t know who my folks would’ve been, and they don’t know when I was born or anything. My age is just a guess. They made today my birthday since I guess it’s the day I got to the orphanage,” he says quietly, unable to look at her.

Dawn feels like she might be sick. She isn’t sure she heard him right. Tears spring to her eyes, thinking about how _unbelievable_ it all seems, reconciling the reality of him to the horrific way he’d entered the world.

 “Oh, honey,” she says, her voice thick. He finally looks at her then, and his expression is so raw and aching that it takes her breath away.

 

“I needed you to know,” he tells her.

 

She kisses him desperately, clutching his shirt collar like she’s afraid he’ll disappear before her very eyes. He tucks his face into the space between her neck and shoulder and thinks, _Home._

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn knows he’ll never completely grasp what it’s really like for her to work in that office – the way she’s always on guard, always keeping her head down; the fear, the dull ache of knowing that if there are cuts, she’ll be the first to go. He’ll never fully understand what it’s like for her to simply exist in that world, but it’s okay, because he gets it in a different way _._

 

Michael knows the pain of living in a world that seems to only truly operate for a select group of people, knows how it is to stand on the fringes of everything.

 

It both terrifies and thrills her, this feeling of being _seen_.

 

 

v. 

Lane Pryce hangs himself in his office and Peggy leaves and Michael feels like he’s crawling out of his fucking skin. It puts him on edge, a low buzz in the back of his mind, a hard knot in his chest. He’s been reading the papers more often – Vietnam, the protests, people being beaten and shot at – and he starts wondering what he’s doing, shilling bullshit in this place that makes people off themselves while the world is falling apart around him. He can’t sleep, thinking about the work he’d done up for Dow Chemicals, imagining his words becoming the bombs that turn people to dust. Each day, he feels like he’s being slowly turned inside out, a raw, exposed nerve.

 

Michael snaps at Stan constantly, unable to stop himself, and he starts to leave him alone after a while. He stays late at the office because he can’t stand to go home and have Morris fuss over him like he’s a child.

 

Worst of all, he’s pushing Dawn away and he knows it. He desperately wants to tell her about how fucked up it all is, how much he can’t stand himself – but she would be _nice_ about it, and that’s the terrible thing. Her eyes are always so concerned and caring, she always asks if he’s okay, and he doesn’t deserve any of it – doing all these meaningless ads, too afraid to step up and do anything of value – so he slowly retreats into himself and tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe she’d be better without him. Nothing good can stay in this fucked up world.

 

He’s hunched over a notepad when Dawn steps into his office. He checks his watch; it’s nearly midnight.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Dawn’s face is pinched and angry. She pulls her coat tighter around herself.

 

“Michael, I don’t know what the hell is happening with you, or what I did, but this has to stop,” she snaps.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m working, go away.”

 

“No,” she says, holding her ground. His shoulders are rigid with tension. She stares back at him, and she’s so beautiful and mad and hurt over him, _because_ of him. The knot in his chest grows tighter.

 

“You don’t want me. Not really. Be with someone normal,” he tells her.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m a freak, Dawn. I don’t know how to act like a normal person. I never did. You of all people know that. There’s probably a million things wrong with me, it’s all become very apparent. You should leave while you can.” Michael struggles to keep his voice steady.

 

She drops onto the couch, her head in her hands. To his dismay, she starts to cry, really cry. He’s never seen her upset like this before.

 

“Please,” she says, “Please don’t do this. I just want to help you. You’re scaring me, Michael.”

 

He stands, his hands shaking.

 

“I don’t – You’re being just like Morris. He never knows when to leave anything alone.”

 

“Stop,” Dawn sobs, her voice rising. “Michael, _please_. I – I love you,” she pleads. Michael feels his heart lurch into his throat. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, not enough oxygen in the tiny office.

 

“What?” he says, voice cracking.

 

She crosses over to him, taking his face in her hands. “I love you,” she repeats softly. Her thumbs brush across his cheekbones, wiping away hot tears from his flushed skin. _When did he start crying?_ He can’t believe that she came looking for him. But then, she’s always been unbelievable to him.

 

“I love you, too,” he says breathlessly.

 

“Okay,” she replies, relieved. “Michael, I just – I kept thinking about Lane. I’ve been so scared. Just – tell me when you feel bad. I’ll do whatever you need. Please, don’t do that again.”

 

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He presses his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes.

 

* * *

 

She helps him find a doctor, and he starts seeing a therapist every two weeks. It’s hard to open up like that, really show someone how he thinks, tell a stranger about all his anxieties – but Dawn is right there with him, encouraging and steady like always.

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn is playing cards with her brother at the table, flicking her eyes over to where Michael is helping her mother with the dishes from Sunday dinner. He’s in the middle of a story, his voice rising in pitch, gesturing wildly with a dishcloth in his hands - and it feels so natural. Expected. She’s still surprised by how easily he fits into her life, making her feel reckless and serious and adored all at once.

 

She closes the door after Michael leaves, turning to see her mother giving her a knowing look.

 

“He’s a good boy, kitten,” she says warmly. Dawn thinks for a moment about his wide eyes, his gentle hands. She smiles.

 

“He’s my best friend,” Dawn replies.

 

 

vi.

Two years later, he asks a question.

“So, should we get married? I mean - there’s a pretty huge pile of evidence that I’d be a shitty husband, what with the whole potential for completely losing it at any given time and everything, but you’d be a good wife so I think it’d balance out. We could get new jobs, somewhere less batshit, get a tiny apartment, maybe a cat? I don’t know, I just don't think I'm much of a dog person,” he rambles. Dawn openly gapes at him. 

 

“Oh, shit. Dawn, please say something. Forget I said that. You know I just say random shit all the time. We can pretend I never said anything. Oh, say something, for the love of God,” Michael babbles desperately. Dawn climbs into his lap, leaning in close so that her bright smile is all he can see.

 

“Yes,” she says, kissing him. “Yes.”


End file.
